


Perfectly Natural

by Domomomo



Category: Trolls (2016), Trolls: The Beat Goes On (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, sweat kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domomomo/pseuds/Domomomo
Summary: When Branch gets to thinking, it quickly leads to overthinking, which leads to thoughts like "What does Poppy's sweat taste like?", which he really shouldn't indulge. Branch/Poppy, takes place after S1E3.





	Perfectly Natural

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for this being my first addition to the fandom, I blame the series writers for catering to so many weird fetishes

_I wonder what her sweat tastes like_

Branch justifies to himself that the thought wasn't entirely unprompted; last week when Poppy was needlessly trying to garner his good favor he had her run on the treadmill to harvest sweat (Though they were now friends with the Bergens, Branch had no illusions that the alliance would end, and he and his bunker would be _ready_ ). To keep her from getting dehydrated he had her drink a cup of it herself, and, _well_. It got him thinking. And Branch thinking about things usually led to overthinking, and those thoughts spiraling out of control into something insane.

Hence the insane thought about Poppy’s sweat. 

He continued to justify it mentally: he was a survivalist, had been harvesting jars of his own sweat for years, had drank his own sweat. Hell, eccentricity was practically part and parcel to his whole existence. Given how close he'd gotten to Poppy over the past few months, it only stood to figure he'd combine the survivalism and her. It was the natural progression of things. Yeah, completely natural and expected. Completely normal to be thinking about drinking the Queen’s sweat.

_Fuck_.

Moving further into the overthinking stage, Branch began pacing, a headache looming on the horizon. This needed to end, he absolutely couldn't keep thinking about her like this.

Maybe… maybe if he drank some. If he drank some his curiosity would be quenched ( _ugh, bad word choice_ ), then he could stop thinking about it.

With that thought in mind he went down to his water and sweat storage, palms clammy with his own sweat as he came to terms with what he was about to do. When he arrived, Branch shamefully grabbed a jar labelled with the date she came over, running a hand down his face. _Just a sip_.

He tilted the glass to his lips and tasted ambrosia.

Well, that was a romanticization -- it tasted like sweat, like dirty saltwater, but there was an added element of sweetness from a sugary diet. A taste that was unsurprisingly Poppy. A tingle traveled up and down his spine at the notion, came with such abruptness that he yanked the jar away from his mouth as if burned. Nononononono, he couldn’t, could _not_ get turned on drinking her sweat, there was no way--

_Shit. Fuck. Damn._

He could already feel himself hardening at the thought of what he was doing, a steady mantra of _her sweat, her sweat, her sweat_ pounding in his ears as his left hand moved to his waistband. _Her sweat, her sweat_ as he pulled himself out of his pants, a groan tearing out of him as he stroked. He took another sip.

Tangy, salty, and sweet, beading on her pink forehead, her chest, her neck. He rubbed faster as he imagined licking the sweat from her skin, catching droplets as they slid down. He could picture the keening moans, the embarrassed whisper of “ _Branch…!_ ” as he caressed her with hands and tongue.

He took another hefty swig of the sweat, the rhythm of his hand erratic as his mind ran wild. He thought of her just as wild, just as frenzied and enjoying it. And then, with the image of her covered in dirt and sweat from a hard day’s work and his mouth tracing every bit of her, he came. A stuttering hitch of breath left him, and he gave a hacking cough as liquid went down his throat the wrong way. He wiped his chin with his free hand, unthinking of the fact that he’d just been using it to pleasure himself.

He grabbed the jar lid and screwed it on tight, putting it back on the shelf with a weak arm and leaving the storage room as quickly as possible. Never again, he wouldn’t do it ever again. No way.

Yet, as a survivalist…

_Drinking sweat once in a while is totally normal, right?_


End file.
